


Lying My Way From You

by Rena



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-23
Updated: 2013-06-23
Packaged: 2017-12-15 23:09:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/855047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rena/pseuds/Rena
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s kind of some sort of sick irony that his dad is now equating bruises and evasive answers with <i>abusive relationship</i> rather than <i>my son might be a serial killer</i>. He doesn’t think it’s necessarily an improvement.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lying My Way From You

 

 

It starts when he comes home late one night, way after curfew, humming softly under his breath, and finds the house not as empty as he expected. He doesn’t even notice there’s light in the kitchen, because he’s still somewhat lingering in his post-orgasmic bliss (he probably shouldn’t have driven home; does being high on endorphins fall into the category of driving under influence of drugs?) until his father calls out his name.

Stiles jumps, flails, and only narrowly avoids running into the doorframe. It’s a small blessing, since he already hit his head pretty hard earlier that day – stupid witch throwing him into a stupid tree – and he’s already sporting a nice bruise on his right temple that’s throbbing like a bitch now that he’s been yanked out of his orgasm induced haze.

“Dad,” he says, trying to regain his balance. “Yo, daddy-oh, fancy seeing you here.” He clears his throat. “I thought you had the night shift?”

_Smooth._

“I got Anderson to cover for me because I wanted to have dinner with you for the first time in a month,” the sheriff replies stiffly. “As you would know if you had answered your phone.”

Stiles cringes. His phone had, _again_ , met a gruesome death. It didn’t drown in the pool this time, and he can’t even blame the witch – not really, even though she inadvertently acted as a catalyst for a frantic make-out session which led to Stiles’ cell phone’s tragic demise. “Uh, yeah, about that...” he says and trails off when he sees the expression on his father’s face. He truly doesn’t want to know how close he was to calling the station, getting his deputies to search the town for his son.

“I know you still have a watch,” John continues. “So I don’t think I need to remind you of how late it is. I also don’t need to tell you anything about the combination of you being late and not answering your phone. I’d hoped you’d just lost track of time while gaming with Scott again, but I called him and he couldn’t tell me where you were either.”

Ah, shit. There goes his number one excuse. “Am I grounded?”

“That depends,” John says. “Are you going to tell me where you got that?” he asks, gesturing at Stiles.

His hand immediately flies up to his neck to cover the trail of hickeys Derek sucked into his skin with a fervour. He realises a second to late that his father wasn’t looking at them at all, but instead is staring at his swollen temple and the dried blood on the corner of his mouth where the tree bark cut up his lips. Fuck. He probably hadn’t even noticed them before Stiles went out and practically wrote _look at those, I’m getting some,_ _fuck yes!_ on his forehead in neon letters the size of Siberia.  Truth be told, the half of his face that screams of physical violence isn’t any more favourable when it comes to attracting attention to it, either.

 “Stiles,” John says, “is there something you want to tell me?”

There’s a lot that Stiles wants to tell him, and, at the same time, wants to keep from him forever, _must_ keep from him forever. He swallows the bile rising up in his throat. It would be easy to make up a story, maybe about getting into a fight over a girl to protect her virtue and her repaying him with a make-out session, or maybe telling him the two kinds of bruises aren’t related at all; and at this point, it shouldn’t really matter, because what’s another lie on top of all the ones he’s already told? But he can’t bring himself to do it. He’d be kidding himself if he thought his dad believed him for one second anyway.

So he just shakes his head. “Nothing.”

He flees the room with a mumbled excuse about being tired and going to sleep so that he doesn’t have to deal with the broken expression on his father’s face.

**∞**

Actually it starts the night Laura Hale’s body is found in the woods and Stiles is enough of an inconsiderate, stupid asshole to drag Scott out in the middle of the night to go looking for it. The lies start – the big ones, not the continuous string of small flams that Stiles is always rocking – and the distrust and the disappointment; Stiles getting into legal troubles, Stiles showing up covered in bruises more and more often, his father despairing, failing to get Stiles to talk to him. Their relationship crumbling.

In the end, it doesn’t matter where or when it starts. The damage is done, no turning back.

He doesn’t blame his dad for following him upstairs, invading the privacy his bedroom should provide. John Stilinski is a good father, regardless of how much he doubts his own parenting skills and how much time he spends at work.

“Stiles,” John says, trying his best to make his voice as gentle as possible as he sits down on the edge of the bed, “you know you can tell me anything, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, failing at keeping the bitterness and resignation out of his voice.

“Who is hurting you, Stiles?”

Stiles remains stubbornly silent. Not only can’t he tell his father without revealing all the supernatural shenanigans going on in Beacon Hills and thus putting him smack in the middle of it, but also the list is worryingly long and he honestly doesn’t think he could name everyone without forgetting a couple of names.

“Jesus,” John mutters. “All that sneaking around, I never once thought – is it because of what happened at the Jungle that you thought you had to keep this from me? You know I wouldn’t care who you date as long as you’re happy, I don’t care if it’s a guy, but Stiles, they’re obviously _hurting you_ and -”

Stiles chortles, almost chokes on his own desperate laugh.

It’s kind of some sort of sick irony that his dad is now equating bruises and evasive answers with _abusive relationship_ rather than _my son might be a serial killer._ He doesn’t think it’s necessarily an improvement. It certainly doesn’t make his father worry less, or any less intent on getting Stiles to finally open up to him. If anything, he’s probably more determined now, because a bad boyfriend should be something he’s equipped to handle.

“I – it’s not like... I walked into a tree,” he says quickly, because it’s close enough to the truth.

His father’s face tightens, and Stiles can see the wheels turning in his head and the faint look of terror seeping into his eyes as he catalogues the way Stiles looks, remembers the secrets and the lies and the evasiveness and all the trouble he got into recently, and he knows what the logical conclusion to all that might be. And that’s the exact moment Stiles realises _oh fuck, that’s just as bad as saying I fell down the stairs, that’s exactly what an abuse victim would say._

“Stiles,” John says, sounding desperate now. “ _Please_.”

 “I’m really tired, dad.”

His father looks like he slapped him. He’s officially the world’s worst son ever. He’s also about two seconds away from throwing up, because God, he truly _is_ killing his father, isn’t he? He doesn’t deserve him conceding, either; he’d deserve being grabbed by the shoulders and shaken until the words tumbled out of him, but his father is a better man than that.

“Fine,” he says quietly, reaching out to hesitantly ruffle his hair. The utter relief on his face when Stiles doesn’t flinch away from him is making him feel even worse. “Get some rest, we’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“Night, dad.”

**∞**

They don’t talk about it the next day.

Or the day after that.

Or any other day.

**∞**

Stiles does his best to avoid being alone with his father – and how fucked up is that? – and it should’ve been easier; with the amount of overtime he works and the hours Stiles spends at school, at practice or at the McCall residence they’ve sometimes gone days without seeing each other for longer than five minutes. But apparently thinking his son is in an abusive relationship has made John put his foot down on refusing to take extra shifts in order to make sure he can be there for Stiles more, keep an eye on him.

It’s making things increasingly difficult, especially now that Stiles can’t always pretend he’s hanging out with Scott anymore because his best friend is once again dating Allison and his father knows. It sucks, for multiple reasons, one being that dating a twenty-four year old werewolf when you’re still jailbait without anyone noticing and ratting you out to the town sheriff who happens to be your dad is complicated enough without having to spin extra lies about his whereabouts.

It also doesn’t help that he keeps getting hurt.

It’s not his fault. It’s not Derek’s fault either, or Scott’s, or anyone’s, really. It’s just that Beacon Hills seems to be built on some kind of hell’s gate, and Stiles happens to be the squishy human who has a tendency of getting in the way of the Big Bads.

Okay so maybe it’s kind of his fault, but only if you’re into victim blaming. The assholes could just, you know, _stop_. But they don’t, so Stiles comes home covered in bruises on a pretty regular basis. Thankfully he gets lucky for a while after that first talk with his dad and ends up with wounds and cuts and fist-sized bruises that he can hide under layers and layers of clothes. If his father notices the way he sometimes winces upon jerky movements, or the way he doesn’t put weight on his left ankle for a few days, he doesn’t call Stiles out on it.

But of course, that kind of luck can’t last long, and it’s only a few weeks later that he comes home with a nice set of fingerprints pressed into the soft flesh of his throat that he’s pretty sure he can’t chalk up to a strangulation kink. Not that it’d help his case if he did.

“Stiles,” his father says, “if you don’t tell me who is hurting you, so help me God, I will-“

“You will what, dad?” Stiles asks, and he thinks he’d actually prefer stabbing himself repeatedly in the face with a knife, but his dad can’t know, he _mustn’t_ know. “Punish me?”

He’s never seen his dad flinch so hard, has never seen him look so pale since Stiles’ mother died, and the aftershocks of the words that came out of his mouth, of the implications of it, make him retch violently, so he flees upstairs and locks himself in the bathroom, violently throws up everything he’s eaten that day and pretends that he doesn’t notice his father pounding on the bathroom door, panicked.

When he sneaks into the kitchen later that night to get some water, he spots the empty whiskey tumbler sitting on the table immediately. John has left for the night shift, again, so at least he doesn’t hear it when Stiles screams at his reflection in the mirror and punches the glass, shattering it into a million sparkling pieces.

Turns out having to pick glass shards out of the spaces between your fingers is a bitch. Derek is furious when Stiles calls him to come help him with it, because werewolf vision is better than his eye sight by a long run.

“Don’t you get hurt enough?” he demands.

“ _Not nearly enough to pay for all the things I’ve done_ ,” Stiles thinks, but says nothing.

**∞**

“I just don’t get it,” Scott says. He doesn’t sound confused, though; just petulant and angry.

“I didn’t think you would,” Stiles says, shrugging. He really didn’t, but it still stings.

“Isn’t it a little...creepy? I mean, come on, he’s, like, ancient, what does he want with a teenager?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Contrary to popular belief, my personality might be appealing to some people.”

Scott snorts. “Right. I’m sure that’s what it is.”

“So what are you saying, that he’s just using me for sex?” Stiles asks. “Thank you, Scott, for indicating that I have nothing but my nubile, willing body to offer.”

“That’s not what I meant, Stiles, you know that,” Scott says. “Just...dude, you two don’t even _like_ each other.”

“We like each other plenty.”

“You used to hate him,” Scott points out. “He hated you, too. He _hurt_ you, how can you want to _be_ with someone like that?”

“I don’t know, Scott,” Stiles says icily, “have you never hurt Allison? Or can you honestly say she never hurt you? No? No, you can’t, because that’s what people _do_. They hurt each other, all the time. Especially the ones closest to you.”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” Scott repeats, in similar fashion. “I can honestly say I never bashed her head into a steering wheel.”

“That was _once_ ,” Stiles argues. “And I kinda deserved it.”

“Yeah,” Scott comments sarcastically. Stiles shouldn’t have exposed him to his sass levels so thoroughly; it’s not pleasant getting it thrown back into your face. “And what about the time he nearly broke your hand? Did you deserve that, too?”

“Oh my God, Scott, he didn’t nearly break my hand just because he punched it, and that was months ago, would you stop being overdramatic?”

Scott, obviously noticing his distress, raises his hands placatingly. “Look, I just worry, okay? We all do. I know he’s not as bad as he used to be, but he’s still an asshole and he manhandles you around a lot, and he treats you like shit most of the time –“

“Not anymore than I treat him like shit, Scott. It’s called banter.”

“- and I don’t know why you keep making excuses for him,” Scott continues, completely ignoring Stiles’ interruption.

“It’s not hard to understand, Scott. I love him. He loves me. It’s not rocket science.”

“It’s not a healthy relationship either,” Scott says darkly.

And maybe it isn’t; they’re both damaged, broken people, with too many skeletons in their closets, too many dark secrets tucked beneath their ribcages, making it difficult to breathe. But Stiles feels calmer around Derek, and a little lighter, and _safer_ , and the sex is awesome, and for some inexplicable reason he’s fallen in love with everything Derek is. And maybe they do hurt each other sometimes, but only with words. Both have particularly sharp tongues, but it’s okay, because they always apologise later with soft kisses pressed into the soft curves of their bodies, with gentle, wandering hands and wanton moans. In any way, Stiles knows that Derek would rather die than see Stiles get hurt, has thrown himself in front of Stiles more times than he can count, and he’d never actually harm him.

Also, fuck this; Scott has no room to talk when it comes to healthy relationships. He’s dating a hunter who went off her rocker once and tried to kill them all. He loves Allison, he does, but sometimes it’s hard to forget what she can do with a couple of knives and a bow and some arrows.

“Like you can talk,” Stiles scoffs.

“He’s not good for you,” Scott insists.

“Derek’s the best thing that’s happened to me since my mum died,” Stiles says quietly but resolutely. “I’m not giving him up.”

He thinks he hears the door creak slightly, but that’s probably just his paranoia; his dad’s working, and there’s no one else in the house but him and Scott.

**∞**

He realises he was wrong about his assumption an hour later, when he’s lying sleepy and sated in Derek’s bed and the doorbell rings. He’d driven over right after his argument with Scott, and there had been some deliciously enthusiastic sex that actually managed to get his mind off things. He was two seconds away from passing out with bliss, but no one ever rings the doorbell to Derek’s loft; all the pack members know how to get in, and he doesn’t get any other visitors.

Derek is by the door and pulling it open before Stiles can tell him not to. He’s not surprised when the grip of his father’s pistol connects with Derek’s face with a sickening crunch, but it tears a scream out of him nonetheless. He jumps out of the bed, nearly trips over the tangled sheets, and he doesn’t care how bad it looks that he’s very much nude and covered in hickey and that the entire loft stinks of sex, or that Derek will heal, because he can’t let this happen.

“Dad,” he chokes, “dad, _don’t_!”

“Don’t defend him, Stiles,” his father says, voice trembling but gun steadily pointed at Derek’s head. “Don’t you dare defend him.”

Stiles doesn’t think his werewolf healing abilities would enable Derek to come back from a bullet lacerating his brain, aconite or no aconite, and the idiot doesn’t even move, doesn’t even flinch, just stares at the sheriff with a resigned look that tells Stiles he still thinks he deserves it. That he thinks that while he didn’t put the cuts and bruises and scars on Stiles’ skin himself, he’s still responsible for them because he couldn’t protect him.

His feet move before his mind realises what his body is doing.

“Stiles,” John Stilinski says, sounding horrified. “Get out of the way.”

“No.”

“He _hurt_ you Stiles, I’ve seen the injuries, I heard you talking to Scott, how can you-“

“No,” Stiles says. “No he didn’t.”

“Step back.”

“No,” Stiles says resolutely. His entire body is shaking. His father has lowered the gun a little, too scared of a shot going off unintentionally, but he’s looking at him like he’s never seen him before.

“Derek Hale,” he says, “I’m arresting you under suspicion of assault and statutory rape.”

“You can’t do that,” Stiles says. “You have no proof.”

“I found my underage son naked and bruised in the bed of a former murder suspect that he’s been spending a lot of time with, according to several sources all over town,” his father replies icily. “That’s enough.”

“It’s not what you think it is,” Stiles pleads. “Just...can you not-“

“Then tell me what it is, Stiles, and just for once in your life, tell the truth!”

“Tell him, Stiles,” Derek says quietly.

Stiles takes a deep, shuddering breath. He’s been lying for so long, he doesn’t know whether he can actually form words that aren’t twisted anymore. His entire mouth is acid poison, hurting everyone around Stiles with every word that leaves it. “I can’t,” he chokes. “He can’t know. It’s not him, I swear, I swear it wasn’t Derek, but I can’t, I _can’t_ \- ”

And then he can’t breathe anymore, and his visions goes black and blotchy and his heart is thundering against his sternum, so loud he can hear it drumming in his ears and it drowns out all the other sounds around him. He thinks Derek tries to talk him down, and so does his father, but he’s not sure; he’s too busy scrambling desperately for a little sliver of control, and it keeps eluding him until he’s almost entirely certain he’ll suffocate, because he can’t force any air into his lungs.

He keeps losing track of time, doesn’t know how long it takes him to calm down. He remembers, vaguely, that he does, remembers Derek’s hands softly manoeuvring him to the bed before his muscles sort of give out.

He dreams of grinning green snakes with amber eyes and gunshots echoing through the night.

When he wakes up, his father is looming over him, arms crossed in front of his chest. Stiles can tell from his face that Derek didn’t tell him anything, because he thinks it’s not his secret to tell. “Derek?” he croaks, because suddenly he’s afraid that his father has shot or arrested him after all.

The sheriff’s face couldn’t be colder, and the rift between them couldn’t be deeper. “Get dressed,” he says. “If I ever see you near this man again, I _will_ shoot him.”

Stiles searches Derek’s eyes across the room, silently begs him to understand, when it occurs to him that Derek already does. He already knows Stiles will pick his father over anyone, will try to keep him safe with his dying breath. And he knows he’ll try to keep Derek safe as well.

“Six months until I turn eighteen,” he says quietly, and feels his father tense beside him, hears the hitch in his breath.

Derek nods.


End file.
